


Sunday, May 7th, 1am, Michael's Loft

by icarxs



Category: The Princess Diaries - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, Mia and Michael are Best Friends which is nice, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, first time sex with actual foreplay that doesnt involve pain!!! imagine that!!, me: maybe i should fix that, me: there isnt enough michael/mia fic in the world, the sex is Vague because I'm a coward, this is the most heterosexual thing ive ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarxs/pseuds/icarxs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Language,” she remonstrates, entirely unconvincingly because she’s breathing in fast gasps and her whole body is yearning towards him like a bowstring. “What would your mother say?"</p>
<p>“Do not,” he says, seriously, sliding her underwear over her hips and discarding it somewhere over his shoulder, “bring up my mother at a time like this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday, May 7th, 1am, Michael's Loft

**Author's Note:**

> I hate these straight awkward uncommunicative nerds
> 
> (this is an entirely self-indulgent sex scene)

There is a brief heartbeat of a moment, as Mia slides her journal with difficulty into her clutch and just about manages to get her pen in it and zips it shut, when she thinks that it might be awkward. She isn’t sure Michael Moscovitz is _capable_ of awkwardness – he certainly never has been around her; even when they were first going out he was only a little embarrassed, and that quickly went – but if there’s anyone who can turn a comfortable situation sour it’s her. She’s the queen of awkwardness, and now she doesn’t have a pen between her fingers to fill the sudden silence. _Oh, fuck_ , she thinks, with the sort of foul-mouthed viciousness that her grandmother would despise, _putain_ , she’s fucked it up, it’s going to be stiflingly horrible the whole drive there –

When she peeps up at him, Michael is looking at her, _gazing,_ really, and he’s close to laughter, and suddenly it isn’t awkward in the slightest. Mia thumps him in the chest. It doesn’t escape her notice that her hand just bounces off. “Don’t _laugh_ at me,” she whines.

“You’re overthinking,” he says, grinning widely. “I’d forgotten how easy you are to read. I can _feel_ your brain churning.”

“I’m an intellectual,” she replies, with as much dignity as she can muster. “It’s all the scheming I do.”

This time Michael does laugh. “Sure,” he says, and Mia feels that swoop in her stomach, almost like too much champagne, like the limo has gone down into a tunnel, that feeling that comes from how bright his eyes are, how the happiness is just pouring off him. _It’s me_ , she thinks, surprised at herself. _I did that to him_. “You don’t scheme. You –” He gestures, endearingly. “You just – hope.”

Mia goes a bit red. She has a feeling it’s not going to be the only time she blushes that evening. “That’s a nice way of saying I muddle through,” she mumbles. Michael laughs again. They’re sitting very close together in the back of the limo, unnecessarily close, bodies angled towards each other despite the armrest between them, and her heart is doing that strange half-beat, _Mi-chael, Mi-chael_ , and she blinks at him and maybe he can tell because his expression softens. It’s how he used to look at her, way back when, over the top of Lilly’s head on the way to school, coffee in hand. He slides his palm up her arm, up the side of her throat, runs a thumb along her cheekbone, and her breath comes out in a funny huff.

It’s the fucking MHC.

They both look towards Hans, whose eyes are fixed firmly on the road in front of him. It’s New York, so the streets are never clear, but it’s late enough that the limo is carving a clean path through the traffic, and they’re most of the way to SoHo, and Mia’s pretty sure Michael can see her pulse in the hollow of her throat. She snatches a quick breath. “I –” she starts, meaning, _I love you_ , meaning, _I know you want me_ , meaning, _I should probably text my mom_ , and he leans in and kisses her, and she’s lost. She doesn’t look out of the window for the rest of the journey.

When they feel the limo slowing, Michael pulls away. His hands are in her hair and his eyes are huge and dark, different somehow under the neon lights of the bar signs than under the sunshine of Central Park. His eyelashes cast shadows across his cheeks, and Mia, who realises belatedly that her hands are clutching at the front of his t-shirt in a manner that isn’t very ladylike, can’t tear her gaze from him. He has a tremour in his hands. “Jesus,” he says, “Mia –”

“Princess,” Hans interrupts, and Michael is at the other side of the car so fast that Mia feels a breeze on her skin. “We’re here.”

Michael clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says gruffly, and Mia was wrong – he can be awkward. “Uh –”

Smug to be the one in control for once in her ridiculous life, Mia grins. “The door opens with that handle there,” she says, brightly. “You just pull it – there you go –”

“Oh, shut up.”

Outisde it’s blissfully chilly, the kind of summer cold that hints at warmth to come, and Mia shivers pleasantly, tapping her heel on the sidewalk. Hans winks at her through the window and she grins back, aware of the colour high in her cheeks, the way her lipstick must be smudged. At least it isn’t J.P., she thinks as Michael leans into the window, says something that she suspects is along the lines of, ‘took us long enough.’ If it was J.P. she’d be so humiliated.

He kisses her again in the elevator that takes them soaring upwards, against the mirror so they’re reflected back a million times. She’s reminded of the ballroom in Genovia that Christmas when the cruise ship sank in the bay and they’d danced in their socks, early in the morning before even Lilly was awake, him humming far more tunefully than her. Mia isn’t sure whether she wants to write poetry about him or rip his clothes off, because he bites down hard on her bottom lip – something J.P. would never do in his entire, mediocre, average life – and she lets out a noise she barely recognises from herself. Her veins are fizzing like she’s drunk too much champagne. Michael’s mouth is swollen when he pulls away, doesn’t let go of her waist, and they tumble out through the doors, and he gets his key in the lock with her against the door, her thigh in between his, her hands under his t-shirt on the heat of his skin.

It’s a top floor windows warehouse-huge kind of space, the loft they’d dreamed of before she was a Princess and this kind of money was something that only happened to the Lanas of the world; it’s a wide-open, cityscape, song-writing sort of place, the kind that makes her drop her bag at the door and enter it in a rush. It’s like diving into a neon-streaked deep ocean new money world, the antithesis of the Plaza, of the Palace, even of her mother’s loft, an antagonist to every place she’s ever called home. It’s full of unpacked boxes; Michael, adrift behind her and anchorless as Mia turns on one foot, beaming, spinning to catch sight of everything all at once, shrugs as a defensive measure.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, breathing still rapid. Mia scoffs at him.

“Don’t be _dumb_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Mess? This is _wonderful_.”

He picks up her clutch, hides his pleased smile in the crouch. “Living room,” he says, stating the obvious. The windows seem to stretch from here to New Jersey. “Bedrooms that way, study, music room. Kitchen. Want a drink?”

Mia is against the windows. Even the Plaza doesn’t have this kind of view, and if it does it’s obscured by lace and centuries of snobbery. She presses a hand to the glass and leaves a triumphant, territorial handprint. “Uh-huh,” she says, vaguely. Michael laughs and rolls his eyes and vanishes into the white-tiled void. Mia glances over her shoulder and calls, “Can you cook now?”

“Only sushi!” he replies, voice echoing strangely. “Alcoholic or –?”

Mia thinks of the minibar in J.P’s hotel room and how much she would’ve needed that shot if she’d gone there with him. Michael sticks his head out and waves a bottle of gin at her; the glass is sapphire blue. She laughs even though nothing is funny, laughs because she feels infected by city lights. “One,” she says. “Technically you’re supplying a minor.”

“You’ve been drinking wine since the age of six,” he reminds her. She hears the chink of glasses and the hiss of the cap being removed from the tonic, and out of his sight she jumps up and down on the spot a few times, presses her hand to her mouth to prevent herself from squealing. She composes herself only through sheer force of will.

“It was watered down,” she says, her heels clacking satisfactorially on the polished wood of the living room, making the transition from wood to tiles – at least Grandmere taught her how to walk. “And it taught me how to drink. Thank you.” The glass is cool in her hand; the lemon is sharp. Michael toasts her.

“To your graduation.”

“Technically I haven’t graduated yet,” says Mia, automatically. “They could still fail me.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Michael echoes, mockingly. She watches the line of his throat as he swallows. The kitchen is almost as large as the living room, and it would seem austere except for his leather jacket thrown over the counter, the three discarded coffee mugs already unwashed, the cereal bowl by the sink. She drifts around, poking in the cupboards; mostly they’re empty. He still has half the crappy Costco crockery his parents bought him when he left for Columbia, the plates chipped. “Are you assessing me?”

“I’m curious about the bachelor pad life,” she grins over one shoulder. “So far I’m disappointed.”

“I’m living with Boris Pelowski next year,” Michael says wryly. “What were you expecting? Cocaine in the cutlery drawer?”

Mia gasps. “You mean I’m _not_ here for the drug-fuelled orgy I was promised?”

“Not drug-fuelled.”

“Disappointing.”

“It’s alright, you could always set your lawyers on me.” Michael puts his drink down. Mia’s pulse picks up a little bit. “What was that about, by the way?”

“Oh, well.” She finds herself deflating a little bit at the mention of it. She winces.

Michael says, “is it something I’m going to want to punch him in the face for?”

There’s a little bit of Lars in his expression. Mia shakes her head quickly. “No. Well.” She bites her lip. “Maybe? But don’t.” His hands are large on her waist again when she goes for him; he’s filled out since college, and she leans into his touch unconsciously, stands on tiptoes so she can press her nose to his. He goes cross-eyed and she laughs. “Don’t hit anyone, please.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice gone a little bit funny. “Can I kiss you instead?”

She brushes her mouth against his and he is very still under her hands, intent. His eye are half closed and her eyelashes brush his cheek and carefully, slowly, she brushes her fingers over his jaw, traces the long lines of his shoulders, down to the sweep of his collarbone. He shivers. “Obviously,” she says, and he doesn’t wait for her to laugh.

She loses time, kissing Michael Moscovitz, but it’s a pleasant sensation. She’s spent too long, these past few years, feeling like everyone is rushing her, pushing her to choose a college, to decide on a life career, to finish her novel, or her project, to stick to whatever lie she’s telling this time, to marry J.P., to talk to Lilly again, to go to therapy and to be happy and to be pretty and to know what fork to use for the cheese course in what specific Eastern European country, and it’s nice to kiss – or be kissed by; it’s more being kissed by, and it makes her think of the way he says _Thermopolis_ and her stomach twists in an entirely enjoyable way – Michael Moscovitz and forget all of that.

After a while, though, she has to take a step away, out of the circle of his arms and into the cool air of the kitchen. She needs to clear her head enough to speak. Michael raises his eyebrows at her. “What?” he asks, and she blinks at him and applies an adjective to him easily: he looks _wrecked_. He says her name, and it’s involuntary: “Mia…”

“I haven’t –” she starts, flushing and cursing herself for being so nervous when they _know_ each other. “Y’know, me and J.P. never did anything. Like, at all.”

Michael snorts. “Thank god for that,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. He looks so beautiful there, leaning against the counter with his t-shirt pushed up and his hair ruffled and a bruise that matches her mouth beginning under his jaw, that Mia has to catch her breath. She smooths down her skirt.

“I mean,” she says, swallowing, “I did more with you, and that was nothing.”

He grins. “Harsh, Thermopolis.” At her expression he adds, comforting, “Look, it wasn’t like I was any more experienced, not really.”

Her eyebrows fly upwards. “You had had sex with Judith! Not that that bothers me any more, but –”

Michael interrupts her before she can get herself even deeper into trouble. “We had sex. Once. And before that, all we’d done is make out a few times. I think she blew me once, but honestly, it was shitty teenaged stuff, we…”

Mia is distracted by the blunt way he says _blew me_. She’s distracted by the slant of his hips in his jeans and the swell of his arms; she’d always thought blowjobs were something girls went through because they were obligtory, no matter how much Tina tried to convince her otherwise, but now she’s _jealous_ of Judith Gershner all over again, because “she blew me once,” and she is bright red and Michael trails off. “Uh, Mia? Are you listening?”

She snaps her eyes back to his face, cursing herself. “Fine!” she says, hurriedly, knowing her nostrils are flaring. “Fine. Yeah. Um, she – actually, I’m lying. I’m so lying. What did you say? You lost me.” _You lost me because I want to suck you off_. This is _not_ a Princess-like way to think. Michael’s face creases up in that way that means he’s trying not to laugh, that kind expression that he reserves just for her when she’s being truly mental, and he reaches for her and she goes, back into his arms, presses her mouth to the column of his throat.

He says, “if you’re not ready, that’s fine,” rumbles against her, and she almost laughs.

“No, God,” she says, rapidly, “I am _so_ ready. I’m so ready that it’s just a bit –” She wants to explain everything to him, MHC and J.P. and how little she ever wanted him and how overwhelming it is to have Michael under her fingertips all over again, but instead she pulls him down and kisses him and feels his teeth sharp on her bottom lip as he grins into her mouth, the flex of his arms under her hands as she clings to him. She kicks off her heels and the tiles of his huge kitchen are cold on the soles of her bare feet, but it only sets her a little bit shorter than him, short enough that she has to reach up to tangle her hands in the curls at the nape of his neck. She realises that she’s pressing him against the counter and that his hands are harsh on her waist, and the thought that his fingers are leaving imprints in her skin sends a shudder skittering up her spine like ice.

His hands are on the top of the zip at the back of her dress, then, sending goosebumps rippling across her skin, and he says, “Mia?” and she feels shaky, like she has the onset of the flu, which isn’t a very sexy metaphor but it’s the best she can come up with. She feels feverish. She steps away, and for a moment he looks concerned, like he’s hurt her, but she turns her back on him.

“It’s easier if you can see it,” she says, smiling to herself at his intake of breath, at his fingers lingering on the nape of her neck where her hair is falling out of its updo in whisps. “Take it from a girl who knows.”

“Fuck,” he says, and she laughs. “Okay. This is happening.”

“Only if you actually take my clothes off before I die of old age.”

“Shut up.” He presses his mouth to the top of her spine and she closes her mouth audibly, inhales sharply through her nose. She almost melts back into him, into the hand in the small of her back, hot through the crepe of her dress, and then he’s edging the zip down and she’s shrugging it off her until it pools on the white tiles like a square of a chess board, black as ink. She’s pleased she chose her underwear well. Michael pulls her back against him and she tilts her head back (well, more accurately, it falls – she doesn’t have much control by this point) and his mouth is on her throat and his hands are hot on her stomach, on her breasts over her bra, on her hips and turning her so he can kiss her properly, fiercely, like he can’t get enough of her, chasing the taste of her over her tongue, and at some point they must break apart so he can get his t-shirt over his head because before she knows it she has her hands on his skin too and it’s forcing something hot through her veins, not the comforting warmth of a bath at the end of a long day but the unnerving heat of a firework. He nudges her towards the bedroom, but she has no intention of letting him go for long enough to make it there, and so they remain in the kitchen for longer than is probably sanitary. He only puts his foot down when her hands are on his belt, and his pupils are blown wide.

“Jesus,” he curses, incongruously considering he is, in her grandmother’s words, _one of those people_ , a phrase she reserves for him, gingers and Democrats, “Mia, we need to get somewhere with a bed or Boris is _not_ going to want to live here.”

Mia realises, suddenly, that he means he wants to have sex with her. Here. The idea does not resonate negatively with her – the counter, for example, is the perfect height. He probably sees it in her eyes, because he groans and buries his face in the crook of her shoulder. He mutters something incoherent but probably offensive and she laughs and it comes out breathy. Her fingers are hooked in his belt loops and she’s never wanted to be touched more, but she’s discovering that torturing him also has its benefits; she says, in his ear, “tomorrow. Pancakes,” and he makes a noise of pain and turns to press his mouth to the hollow of her throat. She adds, “I expect raspberries,” and Michael pulls away.

“Don’t make me carry you,” he threatens.

Mia goes in front of him instead, because she likes the weight of his eyes on her hips. His room is in a similar state of disaray, but the bed is made, white crumpled sheets, and he half-bundles her onto them and they tumble, all limbs, and she laughs at the ceiling and lets him crowd her against the cool wooden headboard, the pillows beneath her back, and she can feel how hard he is between her thighs and she’s starting to get a little bit woozy now. She snatches breaths around his lips, his mouth, combs her fingers through his hair, swallows curses when he unhooks her bra, and she’s flushing all over but it isn’t embarrassment, it’s the heat of his hands on her, and then his mouth on her.

He swears a _lot_. She isn’t surprised, because Michael’s never been able to keep his mouth closed, not even when it’d be good for him. He is sucking marks down her ribcage and Mia is hiding her face in the crook of her elbow and trying not to let the humiliating breathy noises she wants to make escape – because she knows he’ll mock her mercilessly later – and he looks up at her and says, “holy motherfuck, you are _beautiful_ ,” and she tries to kick at him but just ends up looping her leg around him and pulling him closer. He sucks a bite next to her navel and grins widely up at her when she squeaks.

“Language,” she remonstrates, entirely unconvincingly because she’s breathing in fast gasps and her whole body is yearning towards him like a bowstring. “What would your mother say?”

“Do not,” he says, seriously, sliding her underwear over her hips and discarding it somewhere over his shoulder, “bring up my mother at a time like this.”

Much, much later, when she has her hands on his hips and she runs her tongue up the side of his cock and the breath leaves him in a desperate rush, he says, a hand reaching down to tangle in her hair, “what would the Dowager Princess –” and she snarls, “do _not finish_ that sentence.”

Anyway, as it is, she comes remarkably easily, on his tongue and around his fingers and then under his fingers again, three times total before she even gets his boxers off, and she wants to make some snarky comment about _clever fingers_ and _robot arms_ but she can’t breathe and she can’t think and her whole body feels like he’s tossed a match at her, like he’s burnt her right down to the core. She is hazy and pliant and longing for him when he’s finally naked beside her, and his expression is somewhat smug, but not as smug as she’d expect because the arrogance is drowned by this funny, all-consuming softness that she recognises suddenly as _awe_. She inhales him and kisses him until she has her breath back, and he says, “I could do this for _days_.”

The gin is long since gone but she feels drunk. She says, “you can. Anything. Me and you.”

He kisses her, because he might know how to swear but he’s never been good at words like that, not like she is. When she wraps her hand around him he shudders forwards into her like she’s turned his cartilage to silk, and he says, sharp as glass, “fuck,” and pushes her away, and before she can be offended he adds, rough, “I will just come if you do that, I swear,” and she’s delighted with herself. She laughs.

“Really?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He finds a condom somewhere in the mess of boxes; Mia watches him from the bed, unashamedly, too flushed with endorphins to feel afraid – isn’t that strange? All this time she’s been fortifying herself like a castle, braced for the attack, the siege towers, the knights, and there’s nothing to fear at all; she doesn’t feel anything except contentment, excitement, the knowledge that he’s _hers_ – and Michael catches her staring and rolls his eyes at her. He presses kisses up her side, her chest, her throat and over her face until she’s giggling, until she couldn’t be frightened if she tried. He taps her hip. “It’s easier if you’re on top,” he says.

She raises her eyebrows. “The voice of experience?”

He snorts. “No, the voice of ‘knowing how sex works’. _Obviously_. Come here.” His kisses make her weak; it’s easy for him to shift her gently onto his lap, and it’s nice to be with him like this, pressed together; he’s beautiful from this angle too. He taps her nose. “Stop gazing at me and focus.”

“I am focused,” she protests, unable to resist leaning forward and kissing him again. He shudders and his hips arch up towards her and his expression is, for an unguarded second, desperate. She guides herself onto him, and one of his hands is on her spine, stroking up and down, calm and cautious even though his face is snapped under control again. She wants that desperation back.

“Slow,” he says, low, “go slow.”

“Okay,” she swallows, because she’s a bit frightened now. “Okay, it’s f –”

“If you say _fine_ –”

It doesn’t hurt, that’s the strange thing. They are both quiet. She presses her cheek to his, dance position, waltz or the tango, and matches their breathing and it doesn’t hurt and he nudges his hips up towards hers and they slide into place and all the air leaves her lungs but it doesn’t _hurt_ , it’s just a _lot_. “Are you okay?” he asks her, and he doesn’t sound very okay and she is smiling like an idiot.

“Fine,” she says, just to be difficult. She shifts and he groans and a spark travels up her spine like a shock. She says, “ _God_ , yeah, I’m –” and his hands are on her hips and he pushes up into her and she falls forward like a marionette. She thinks she might swear in French because of the way that he laughs, but every movement does interesting things to the way they’re connected and she doesn’t have a single coherent thought left in her. “God, _please_ ,” she breathes, and he must know then that she’s lost because he flips them (easily, very easily, she takes note of that somewhere) and they’re pressed together and oh my _God_.

Lana undersold.

Afterwards, they sleep. She’s never been so exhausted in her entire life, not even after a day in Genovia when she’s been at state events since 7am without a break; this is a different kind of tiredness, bone-deep and satisfying. They both wake early the next morning when the sun streams in through the windows – they’d never even thought of curtains, and it’s okay because if they’d made love the night before this time they _fuck_ ; he pins her wrists above her head and they both forget it’s only her second time and the sunlight bouncing off the glass half-blinds her and she leaves long scores down his back that she doesn’t feel in the least bit guilty about. And they sleep, and they wake up, and they mess around, and they sleep, and Mia doesn’t know how couples ever leave their bed. How did Tina keep going to school? How did she spend hours with Boris knowing that it could be like this? Then again – Boris. But she can’t imagine ever letting him go.

 

After Graduation they’re in the limo and she says, tucked up under his arm, his hand tracing mindless patterns on her thigh, “Didn’t you promise me pancakes? And raspberries?”

“Sure,” grins Michael, unabashed. “But where am I putting the raspberries?”

“I quit,” says Lars.


End file.
